


Paris 1832

by esteven



Series: Years gone by, and still [3]
Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, M/M, Multiverse, Post-Aubreyad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven/pseuds/esteven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone keeps Javert from falling into the Seine, and he is not Valjean</p><p>*raises glass*<br/>To my betas!</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own the characters featured here. They belong to Patrick O'Brian, Victor Hugo and Schönberg/Boublil</p><p>This fic was originally called <i>The Bridge (ou dix ans plus tard)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris 1832

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heather_mist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heather_mist/gifts).



It was an hour past midnight. _Javert remained motionless for several minutes, gazing at this opening of shadow; he considered the invisible with a fixity that resembled attention. The water roared. All at once he took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the quay. A moment later he appeared erect upon the parapet of the quay, bent over towards the Seine, then drew himself up again_ *. He readied himself to fall, fall, fall. 

‘Descendez immediately!” A deep seagoing voice, heavily accented, arrested Javert where he stood. Again. ‘Descendez! Now!” and Javert did. Obeying commands was ingrained in him, and the authority in the voice had been impossible to ignore, even when it came from an Englishman who, from the sounds of it, had not entirely mastered French.

He turned, and in the middle of the bridge stood a man, as tall as he, but more broad-shouldered, clad in black, the light from a lantern glinting off short grey hair. He looked familiar, but Javert could not think of when he had ever met the man until he remembered two bright and sunny days many years ago, in Montreuil, something that triggered the even older memory of a blond English prisoner, a ship’s captain on the eve of Algésiras. 

‘M Aubrey?’ The man squinted at him, raised an eyebrow and inclined his head. 

‘M Javert? I am amazed, sir. You looked like you wanted to end your life?’ He continued more softly. ‘Almost nothing is worth that sacrifice.’ In a whisper: ‘M Madeleine, he is no longer with you?’

‘No, he is not.’ Javert wanted to be left alone, so he would not have to think of 20461; he did not want to think at all. He wanted to disappear into oblivion, but it would have been uncivilized not to reply to a guest in his country, so Javert dredged up the memory of more of the English words he had learnt long ago, and despite stops and starts, a wrong word or phrase here and there, some haphazard tenses and wildly misused grammar in either language, they nevertheless managed a conversation.

‘It is late, but there surely is a place open at this hour of the night where we might have a glass of wine?’

Javert retrieved his hat from the edge of the quay and together with Aubrey crossed the bridge. He nodded. ‘A small tavern near Saint-Séverin may still be open.’ He added, by way of explanation. ‘It is further away from the barricades.’

There was no disdain only kindness in those blue eyes; it was a _rare_ experience for Javert. Most people looked at him with fear, with suspicion, some even with malice, but hardly any with kindness. He remembered that Madeleine…At once he crushed that image… he was a convict…24601…But Valjean had looked upon him just like that, had regarded him as an equal, but that was long in the past. They stayed silent for some time.

‘M Madeleine died? Was that your reason for being on the bridge?’ M Aubrey’s eyes darkened, as if such a sentiment was not unknown to him. 

‘No, no, there was never a Madeleine to begin with.’ Javert’s voice was hoarse, breaking at the name. Aubrey inclined his head in question, but stayed silent. Before Javert knew it, the story poured out of him in French, interspersed by badly mangled English, but it seemed not to matter. The Englishman understood, and with every word, his blue eyes rested on him more gently.

‘And on the bridge you wished to take yourself out of the equation, if you pardon my mathematical analogy, and would rather die and thus set M Madel—‘he corrected himself, ‘M Valjean free, never to be hunted again? Is that not called,’ he breathed deeply as if this once, he wished to be correct so there would be no misunderstanding. He leaned forward and whispered ‘Love…amour? In Montreuil you seemed very nearly happy, that surely counts for something? M Valjean looked at you with great affection then, and it is very difficult to pretend emotions.’

Love: to receive it from an ex-convict and to give it in return? The thought was as alien as it was frightening for Javert, and so he reached for the glass, gulping the wine down. With sudden insight Javert remembered meeting the two gentlemen from over a decade ago. M Aubrey and his friend, Javert blessed his good memory of names and faces, M Maturin, had been so very comfortable with each other! It had been a Sunday afternoon when he had followed Madeleine, no _Valjean_ , his mind was still confused, into the office where the English guests had been waiting for the mayor to return and give them a tour of the factory. It had been palpable that they had not needed words to communicate. 

Aubrey relaxed into his chair with a slight smile that showed Javert the Englishman was perfectly able to follow his train of thought.

Javert licked his dry lips. ‘M Maturin is still with you?’

Aubrey accepted the attempt at diversion. ‘He is. We still like to come to Paris once a year for the opera, and last Sunday we were set for the Salle le Peletier, only to hear that it had been closed due to unrest at the funeral of your General Lamarque. People were fighting and building barricades in the streets, we were told, and Dr Maturin just _had_ to offer his services behind the barricades because he will not see humans suffer when he can avoid it, or at least ease their suffering.’ He sighed. ‘I would have been in the way, and have therefore walked and walked to divert my mind, not to think about what might happen to him.’

He looked straight at Javert. ‘I would not tell him to his face that his death would tear my soul asunder, though I feel he knows that already. But I will not have him change for my sake, because then he would not be the man I have cherished these many a year. When the time comes, I will have to deal with it, but I hope that will be many years into the future. One situation decades ago, taught me that love in every shape and form is precious, and should not be avoided or rejected out of fear.’ Aubrey emptied his glass and stood up.

Javert’s wooden heart had been touched by the words and the smile, and suddenly he hoped. Maybe he should go to the rue de L’Homme Armé and talk with Valjean?

The Inspector also rose and inclined his head towards the bridge. ‘Towards the barricade?’

As one they fell into step, crossing the Pont au Change. Javert caught Aubrey’s glance and the question in his eyes, and in reply he shook his head ‘Not tonight, maybe not ever. I think I will see M Ma—‘ he stopped, recollected himself and said, ‘ _Jean Valjean_. I will tell him of your words.’  
At a nearby crossing, Javert spoke up. ‘May Dr Maturin be safe and may you, M Aubrey, and he stay companions for many years into the future.’ 

‘You and M Valjean will have much to discuss, and, between you and me, your future will not be easy. We have found that disagreements need not be the end; indeed, they further our understanding of each other. And making up is all the sweeter for it.’ There was a definite twinkle in Aubrey’s eyes, and the amusement in his voice could not be mistaken.

They shook hands and went their separate ways.

**Author's Note:**

> * Hapgood translation _Les Misérables_ by Victor Hugo


End file.
